


How Soon Is Now

by lestrahdle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Cancer, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Hypothermia, M/M, Mycroft is gay, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, hypothermia case, lestrade is bisexual, mention of sexual assault, mystrade, some deductions are incorrect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 18:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestrahdle/pseuds/lestrahdle
Summary: Sherlock had always had a fascination with police dealings ever since Carl Powers. While surveying his brother’s routines, Mycroft noticed Sherlock spending quite a bit of time doing his own surveillance on a certain Sergeant Lestrade.The origin story for M. Holmes and G. Lestrade. Starts at the sauna/hypothermia case.





	1. Smash It Up

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is heavily influenced by some sweet jams. Check out the playlist: http://spoti.fi/2svm9Js

_eager to impress  
__humble_  
_taste in music - questionable_  
_kindhearted - too much?_  
_naive_  
_DI promotion - simple call Charles_  
_look into Mondays at 1845_  
_heterosexual, ~~newly~~_ ~~_married_~~ _separated  
__strong moral principle_  

A text alert broke Mycroft out of his trance. He sighed, closing his notebook and running a palm over his forehead and with shaky hands, he checked his mobile. 

Sherlock was at the same location he was last night. Predictable. With another heavy sigh, Mycroft alerted his staff to follow a similar protocol (sending a car to collect his brother the next morning that he would inevitably refuse). He swiped back to his home screen, noticing the blaring red icons for missed notifications. Normally Anthea would screen these, so that means what was left was personal. 

“Myc, dear, it’s your mummy. Just wanted to check in and make sure everything was all right. I know you’re very busy, but I do miss my regular updates. Sometime soon, dear.”

His thumb hovered over the screen to delete the message, but he reconsidered. Naturally his mother would like an update on her youngest son. After an overdose that left him in a coma for two weeks, Sherlock was top priority in the Holmes realm. 

Mycroft flipped back to his missed notifications. Three texts from the devil himself. 

_I know you’re spying on me. -SH_  
_I’m not taking your bribes. - SH  
_ _I like my flat. Piss off. - SH_

Gentle pressure to push his brother out of his current neighborhood was not immoral. If anything, Mycroft could have done so much more, but the more obvious his big brother advances seemed, the further Sherlock was pushed away.  

It’s like bargaining with a child, honestly. If Sherlock thought Mycroft disapproved of a lifestyle choice, he was more inclined to keep at it. But it was very important for Sherlock to think his brother was only focused on this aspect of his current lifestyle.

One last text. _Sherrinford is secure. - A_

Slumping back in his chair he put his mobile on the end table face down. He grabbed the remote instead and turned up the volume on his stereo. Best remedy to drown out the nonsense his brother left whirring in his head? Wagner. Of course.

He turned over his small notebook in his lab, rubbing the smooth leather with the pads of his fingers as his eyes lost focus staring at the other end of the room. He had been working for months trying to find the right distraction that would pull Sherlock off the drugs. One that was far enough away from his jurisdiction that Sherlock would not immediately reject it. Something to put his brother’s mind to work for an extended period of time. Perhaps this wasn’t a plausible goal, but it was worth a try. Even if the distraction kept him away from drugs for an hour. But then Mycroft didn’t expect Sherlock to be looking for this as well. 

Sherlock had always had a fascination with police dealings ever since Carl Powers. While surveying his brother’s routines, Mycroft noticed Sherlock spending quite a bit of time doing his own surveillance on a certain Sergeant Lestrade. 

Originally Mycroft found this discovery comical; how could a twenty-something cocaine addict stalk an officer from Scotland Yard? He underestimated the density of his brother’s intelligence, but thought he would play along. Only then did he realize Gregory Lestrade was the perfect candidate for such an experiment. He’d allow it to continue under some strict surveillance, naturally. 

_Christ_ did he hope it would work. He closed his eyes and the memory that bubbled to the surface was always the same. It was an all-consuming choking feeling. The walls closing in. The dimly lit room, cold. It was always so cold. A glance to his left and his youngest brother is convulsing on a mattress pad. He could still feel the worn paper between his fingers as he lifted the crease. A list. Of everything he’d taken. He promised. 

The ambulance was already on its way. Should he reach out a hand? He looked so small, delicate. 

“Sir,” Anthea’s voice grounded him. The stereo switched off with an abrupt click as his assistant made her way across the room. Mycroft sniffed - when had he started to cry? He turned away from the door, fussing with his handkerchief. 

“I’m right in the middle of-“ 

“I think we may have something, sir,” she cut him off, brushing past him and placing a laptop on the coffee table. Their feed from New Scotland Yard was playing, a bit of static - low quality, inside a car then. Anthea passed him an open file, turning up the volume and adjusting the quality on the scanner. 

“Yes I need forensics back on the scene, I want a second opinion!” the young sergeant was on the verge of collapse - short temper that one. A short click and whoever was on the other end of Lestrade’s call was disconnected. Mycroft’s gaze fell unfocused on the file in front of him, too distracted with the man’s turmoil over the crackle of the poor connection.

“Anderson is just a kid,” Lestrade’s temper continued in a verbal inner monologue. “There is no way it could have been hypothermia. In a bloody sauna! _Christ_.”

“He’s already on his way?” Mycroft asked, gaze still unfocused on the file in front of him. 

“Your brother is already there, sir,” Anthea replied; _that_ got him to blink and look up. “He was talking to one of his - oh what do you call it - _street connections._ Police arrived outside the scene and he just followed his curiosity. Seems to be a magnet for chaos that one.” Mycroft huffed a laugh. “Anything I can do?” 

“Keep this with me,” Mycroft grabbed the laptop, moving across the room to his desk. “Bring up the CCTV in those areas and have Tom on standby. I would rather him not getting arrested today.” He fussed with his tie as he sat down, shuffling papers, trying to expel some nervous energy.

Anthea headed toward the door, eager to retrieve the surveillance requested, only to stop mid stride at Mycroft’s subtle grunt. “Sir?” she asked, turning around. 

“Is he -“ It only took a moment for Mycroft to reconsider his query. “Of course he is, never mind.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Anthea began, her voice blazoned with the confidence of her rebuttal. “But he isn’t high. Just coming off it, in fact. Should be another twenty minutes or so. Sticks to a schedule and all.” 

Mycroft sighed a breath of relief. Not high. Well that was promising. Very promising indeed. Sure he would be more irritable than normal, but he also wouldn’t be _himself_ or at least not fully. Perhaps this would make him a bit more tolerable, believable even, to the young aspiring inspector. 

“Quite,” was his curt reply, followed by a genuine nod of appreciation. Anthea’s lips quirked up and then she was gone. 

Mycroft picked up his mobile, quickly punching out a message to his brother: the final act to seal the deal. To make sure Sherlock stayed and with his ostentatious gusto. 

_Whatever you are doing down there, stop. You know what happened to the other one. Carl Powers, was it? Listen to me, brother mine. Think about what you’re doing. -MH_

The response was almost immediate: _Piss off -SH_

The game is on.

 

* * *

AN: This chapter was influenced by and named after  _Smash It Up_ by The Damned. Check out the Spotify playlist up top. This is my first fic since I was sixteen. Let me know if you want to read more! :o) Please read the tags. 

 


	2. Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade? Meet Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind notes. Apologies to any Americanizing I do on accident. Chapter based on Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now - The Smiths.

Greg felt like someone was watching him for weeks. It was a peculiar deafening feeling and yet he didn’t feel unsafe. He didn’t feel frightened, alarmed, or even on edge. He did feel very _aware._ There was almost a comfort in it all. 

On his outings to the pub, his trips to the store, while he was watching crap telly - always feeling a presence. He was never a religious man, never a spiritual one either, but maybe it was - no, he didn’t want to think of that now. 

It was about five years into being Sergeant Lestrade. He had seen enough gruesome crimes to desensitize him for a bit. Detective Inspector Pitts was his normal superior, but with the Chief Superintendent ill and Pitts next in line for the job, Lestrade was on his own a lot of the time. Despite Lestrade taking on a temp DI job, Pitts made no comments on whether he would officially gain the title anytime soon. 

So as always, Sgt. Lestrade showed up to the crime scene, took as many notes as possible, only to return the paperwork to Pitts who would take full credit of any progress Greg and his fellow officers made. Just another day at the office.

“Tell me what I’m walking into, Donovan,” he said as he closed the car door. 

“Siobhan Harris, 34,” Donovan trailed behind him as he walked up the steps and through the front door. “She frequents this spa pretty regularly. Found dead in one of the private saunas.”

“Heat stroke?” he asked, pausing by the vacated reception desk. 

“Hypothermia.”

Greg chuckled. “We’re still on this, eh?”

“It’s the only bit we’ve got,” she wasn’t making much eye contact now. Sally Donovan, although only around for a little over a year, knew very well the hell that would be unleashed if Greg brought _these_ details to Pitts and it made him shudder.

_Hypothermia in a sauna? You’re a bloody idiot, Lestrade!_

“Christ,” he began walking again, toward the forensics team crowded around the presumed sauna room. “All right, where’s Anderson?” 

“Right here,” Anderson popped his head out from the doorway. 

Ah, the young Phillip Anderson. He’s always been a pompous git. Sure, he was potentially the best forensics had and could easily handle a case on his own. His over-confidence, however, led Lestrade to question him pretty frequently, which naturally led their professional relationship to be quite strained. Anderson always had to be the smartest person in the room. 

“When you’ve got a mo’?” Lestrade gestured back toward the lobby. Anderson nodded and disappeared back into the room. 

Greg turned to Sally. “Get a handle on the team outside, make sure they know protocol if press shows up. Keep the public back, you know the drill.” She nodded and was on it in an instant. 

Lestrade shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked down at his shoes, aligning his toes and bouncing on the balls of his feet. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. Normally he would ignore that, but when it was followed by four more brisk nudges, he pulled it out of his pocket and swiped to the home screen. New text from his sister-in-law. 

_Any chance you can get Zoe from school?_  
Or maybe from a friend’s house?  
Have 2 stay late at work again.  
_And takeaway?  
_ _Italian_

Greg had been helping his sister-in-law, Samantha, since his brother passed last year. Every Monday evening he would make his way across London to hang out with his six-year-old niece, Zoe, and lend an ear for Sam. It was the least he could do. Every week it got harder and harder to see how like her father Zoe was becoming and Greg wanted to make sure that it ended at looks. 

Dan Lestrade was a drug addict. He was a pretty damn good one, too. Greg and Sam didn’t even notice that he was using again, didn’t realize he had lost his job, didn’t realize he was hiding money, didn’t realize he was manipulating his family until it was too late. He went missing for three months until they found him strung out, living on the streets. He died in the hospital two days later. Now Sam was left with Dan’s debts and knowing that one day she would have to tell Zoe how her dad died. 

Greg immediately moved to type out his reply. _Just got onto a case. Can definitely get Z from a friend’s. I’ll let you know when I’m off._

The response was immediate. _Thnk u x_

In a rush then. He tucked his mobile back into his jacket pocket, rolling his shoulders back to release some tension. 

Fresh-faced Sgt. Paul Dimmock peered around the corner next. “Just got in touch with family,” he said, handing Greg the file with the victim’s basic info from the spa. “Widow, actually. Poor sod. He’s out of town in Vienna, on the first flight back to London. He’ll meet you at the morgue tomorrow to identify the body.” 

“Cheers for that.” It was always Greg who had to meet with the victim’s families. Dimmock just shrugged in response. 

There was a bit of a commotion coming from the lobby. Greg’s eyes narrowed, his eyebrow raised as he glanced at Paul, who sighed dramatically.

“There’s some kid here. Says he knows what happened. Won’t leave the crime scene and-“

“A witness?” Greg interrupted. Dimmock was too longwinded for his patience today.

“Not sure.”

“Not sure?! Christ, is no one doing their job today? Really, Dimmock, you didn’t think to ask him?” Lestrade’s composure was just about gone, but Paul didn’t seem to mind. 

“Uh, no, not really. Just seems like a weirdo, nothing too disruptive, but I can -“ 

Before Dimmock could finish his sentence, a tall man in a ridiculous coat burst into the room, followed briskly by a flustered Sally Donovan. The man has a mop of brown curls, almost matted, and too long to keep out of his face without serious maintenance. He was talking a mile a minute, competing to be heard over Donovan and Dimmock’s pleas for him to step back, this is an active crime scene, blah, blah. 

“Oi,” Lestrade walked over to the man, waved at Sally and Paul to hush. “You better be a witness if you are crashing my crime scene.” The young man’s grey eyes made contact with his and Greg could see his jaw shaking. No, his whole body was shaking. 

“Was she wearing a wig?” the boy - Jesus, he was so young - ignored Greg’s initial comment. 

“Pardon?” 

The most exasperated, dramatic sigh escaped the boys lips, making his body quake harder. “When the reports come back, you’ll see she had cancer. She was wearing a wig. Chemotherapy, lost her hair, but her vanity meant that she was most likely - “

“Oi! What’s your name, kid? You like coming to crime scenes and making up stories?” Greg gritted his teeth. Donovan and Dimmock seemed to brace themselves to grab the boy or maybe they were ready to pull Lestrade off him. 

“- wearing a wig,” he finished. “Sherlock Holmes. No, I am not a witness and I’m not _making up stories_ ,” he spat, “but I do know how she was killed. I also know that you are due for a promotion, although you are basically doing Detective Inspector Pitt’s job currently, without credit and that seems to bother you. Not too much to warrant a complaint to his superiors, but -“

“What are you, some kind of stalker?” Greg laughed at the absurdity of it all. He went from anger to incredulous amusement to flattery. _This random kid thinks I’m due for a promotion. At least someone sees it. What the hell am I saying?_

“No, I’m observant,” but he didn’t pause before he plowed into the next of his _observations_. “You are the eldest, outlasting one brother. You recently separated from your wife, although you are still wearing your wedding ring: sentiment. So it was not your choice to-“ 

Ah, the anger was back. 

“ _That’s_ enough. I’ve heard enough, bring him outside,” he stepped away, fists clenching. He was patiently counting out his breaths, just like he had learned in therapy. Count to five, hold it, release in five. Before he could move onto the next round, Sherlock was shouting back at him as Dimmock hauled him out of the room tugging at each arm. 

“It’s _obvious!_ Just check to see if she was wearing a wig,” Sherlock shouted, not struggling against either sergeant, letting them heave him back through the lobby and outside. 

Greg walked back toward the sauna, still counting his breaths with each measured step. He could make it through this day. Not the end of the world. His brother’s death was common knowledge around the office, but his separation was another issue entirely. Was it that obvious? They had just split only three months ago. It wasn’t a divorce, just some “space” whatever the bloody hell that meant. How did this kid know about that? And his brother? _Christ._

Donovan awkwardly followed him back, shuffling her feet and staring down at the floor. “Sorry to hear about you and your wife, Greg,” she said with some genuine compassion, which made Greg angrier. “I had no idea, I-“

“Leave it, Sally,” he growled. 

“I will, I just -“ she sighed, knowing his stubbornness all too well. “Just know you can talk to me, you know? We could go to your local, grab a pint, something.”

“I’d rather just you let it alone,” he replied, with a bit too much venom. He grunted, pushing his shoulders back and stopping his stride - when had he started pacing? It wasn’t Sally’s fault. She was actually one of the only people at this bloody job who seemed to have his back and did her job. It was refreshing. 

He cleared his throat to make sure the rest of his dogmatic tone dissipated. “I- thanks, Sally. Mean it.” 

“Anytime, Greg, really. I knew you were crazy ‘bout her,” she said with a sad smile. She coughed and gestured behind Greg to let him know they were no longer alone. When he turned, he had never been so happy to see Phil Anderson in his life. About time, too. 

“Everything all right here?” Anderson stepped up to Greg with a goofy look on his face. _Ugh_. So he found something. 

Greg ignored the smug look on his face. “What’d you find, Phil?” he managed with the smallest sigh.

“Well!” his grin was entirely inappropriate for the circumstances, but Lestrade didn’t have the need to challenge that now. “Mrs. Harris is probably not Mrs. Harris at all!” 

“Pardon?” Greg squinted as Anderson removed his rubber gloves with a jarring _snap_. 

“Oh _yes_ ,” Anderson continued, grinning. “Must have been undercover for something. Maybe she was taking on her identity to get an appointment here. Pretty exclusive spa, after all!” 

“What are you on about?” Greg was done with people telling him what he ought to know without evidence. 

“Well,” Anderson paused, grinning like a child with a secret he ought not to share. “She was wearing a wig!” 

Greg stopped listening after that. His vision tunneling, his ears filling with cotton. Anderson continued to babble on with what other theories he believed to be fact while Greg struggled to put one foot in front of the other as he sprinted to the front door. As the door clashed open, his senses rushed back tenfold. He winced at the oversensitivity of it all. 

“WHERE’S THE KID?” he bellowed as soon as he was outside the spa. 

Dimmock jumped when he heard him. He was standing next to the police car, likely interrogating the kid who had just burst in earlier predicting the wig. The boy - Sherlock, was it? - grinned upon seeing Lestrade approaching and Dimmock made himself scarce. Lucky for him the press was already convening outside so Greg had to soften his approach.

“Ah, wearing a wig then, eh Graham?” he was still trembling, holding his ostentatious charcoal coat closer to his body, hugging himself around the middle to ease the shakes. There was something strangely familiar about it. 

“Greg,” he automatically corrected, then grunted clenching his fists. “Lestrade. Sergeant Lestrade to you.” Sherlock was still beaming. Suddenly it all clicked. “Oi, what are you on, kid?” 

“Nothing.” The response was too quick. 

“Heroin? You’re right thin as a rail,” Greg crossed his arms, gritting his teeth as the memories of his brother bubbled to the surface. That tunnel vision came back and Greg felt the wind knocked out of him. _Control._

“I assure you, _Sergeant_ ,” Sherlock spat. “I am completely sober. I don’t see how this is relevant seeing as I just told you I know who is the perpetrator of this homicide.”

“And you’re coming off a high,” Greg countered. “What makes you think I’m not arresting you today?”

“Because I know she died of hypothermia in a sauna. I also know that you and your team are out of your depths and you need me,” there was an eery twinkle in his eye as he finished. 

In his gut Lestrade knew this kid wasn’t the murderer, but he couldn’t place why he was here either and how he knew all of this. Not everyday a kid showing withdrawal symptoms shows up to a crime scene rattling off case details. 

He took a breath as he tried to sort this all out. “So you overheard confidential information, that doesn’t-“

“I didn’t overhear, I _observed_. Honestly, I don’t like repeating myself,” his self-entitlement was oozing from his perfect posture and protruding cheekbones. 

“Okay, off you go then,” Lestrade stood next to him now, leaning back against the cruiser, his arms still crossed. Sherlock raised his eyebrow, questioning the permission he was granted. Greg just nodded in response. 

“She had stage four cancer,” he began, talking a bit slower than he had been. “She had hypothermia before she went in the sauna. Common misconception - people think that hypothermia can be cured with an extreme temperature change, when in fact it creates an artificially induced fever and you are more likely to die from a heart attack.”

“Okay, so why hypothermia? It’s the middle of August,” Greg countered.

“Cold exposure treatment,” Sherlock said with such confidence and no elaboration. Greg countered with a look of _I’m not getting it,_ but Sherlock didn’t seem to read facial expressions too well. 

“Cold exposure treatment?” 

“The cancer,” Sherlock elaborated with a roll of his eyes. “Experimental really and entirely inconclusive. In fact some reports claim that cancer grows faster under colder temperatures.”

Greg narrowed his gaze, trying to put this all together. “So she tried to kill herself?” 

“Of course!” his sarcasm hit Greg like a blow to the head. “No, Grant, she probably had a decent life insurance pool.”

“Greg,” he correct on autopilot, grunting at the informality. “It’s Lestrade. Sergeant Lestrade! Wait, life insurance? So someone else brought her in the sauna?” 

“Obviously. Exclusive sauna like this? Comes from money. Mid-morning on a weekday means she doesn’t work. Not her money then.”

“But who would need her life insurance money if she already has someone funding her lifestyle?”

“You’re asking the right questions now,” Sherlock smirked at his victory. “It’s probably a trust fund or old family money that she is living off of. Meaning whoever did this didn’t have access to all of it. Needs money of their own. But who would need money, that’s for you to figure out, if the New Scotland Yard can manage it, that is.”

“And where were you when this all was happening, then?” Lestrade knew he wasn’t arresting the kid today, but needed to at least cover his bases on alibi. The details were too precise. If they checked out that would be another hurdle to leap for another day.

“I can provide you with the appropriate witnesses to confirm my alibi, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied diplomatically. His posture softened, his arms trembling as he loosened the grip he had around himself.

“And if you’re right?” Greg asked and Sherlock grinned, holding out his quivering hand. Greg took it in a firm shake. 

“ _When_ ,” he corrected with a wink. “I’ll find you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter Greg and Mycroft will meet, I promise. There was just a bit to explain on the context first.


	3. I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seems like Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade had a bit more in common than originally anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is heavily influenced by some sweet jams. This chapter was based on 'I Started Something I Couldn't Finish' by The Smiths. Check out the playlist: http://spoti.fi/2svm9Js

Mycroft fiddled with his lapels, tapping the pads of his fingers against his thigh. He sat in the back of the car idling outside a middle income appropriate flat share, glancing out the window at Anthea with her eyes glued to her phone. His gaze immediately shot back to his lap as he bubbled with anticipation.

This was extremely important. Everything had gone relatively well, considering. It _was_ hypothermia and Sherlock’s deductions were, unsurprisingly, accurate. Mycroft kept a light surveillance on Lestrade throughout the day, making sure Sherlock didn’t end up wrongfully arrested, but the young sergeant surprised him. Still, Greg seemed to need a push. Something to solidify this partnership.

After Lestrade had gone to pick up a young child at the conclusion of his shift, Mycroft requested surveillance access be terminated for the evening. In Mycroft’s opinion, family situations were off limits. It was not his business to follow anyone into their intimate personal dealings. Anything he needed to know he could deduce in person or through other means. Influencing family matters would be reprehensible.

Still, it was essential that they spoke tonight.

Mycroft thought of quite a few different ways he could insert himself into the situation. He had to keep a bit of discretion and dignity so he needed a bit of finesse. Gentle guidance was probably best. He didn’t want to threaten him. On the contrary, he only wanted to speak with Lestrade and perhaps cut a deal to make sure this distraction of his youngest sibling would last and that his sobriety would, too.

But then why was he so god damn nervous?

He jumped when he heard muffled voices outside the car. Glancing back he saw his assistant and Lestrade illuminated only by the dim light of the street lamp. Greg was bundled, a bit too much for the brisk fall weather. Leather jacket stretched over a thick jumper, the collar skewed with a misshapen and well-worn scarf, hand-knit. _Workaholic, doesn’t want to miss work, always cautious of getting sick._

Mycroft shook his head to try and brush off the reflexive deductions. _Focus._

_“‘Mr. Holmes’-_ how formal.” The car door opened and Lestrade slid in the back seat next to Mycroft. “Ah, you’re not Sherlock,” he stated the obvious. _Ugh_.

“Just an interested party,” Mycroft replied with a smirk. Anthea shut the door behind Lestrade and sat in the front seat. The doors remained unlocked, but Greg didn’t turn to leave. Curious, then.

There was an immeasurable amount of time that the consulting political mogul and aspiring detective inspector just stared at one another. Both intellectuals assessing the risk and danger in their counterpart. Mycroft having a bit of an advantage after months of surveillance, but always from afar, never up close.

Wrinkles around his eyes and by his mouth from years of insouciant laughter. Deep creases in his forehead from late nights at the office, stress and concern worn down on his face. Tan skin and sunspots making his skin radiate warmth even in the overcast skies of autumn London. His hair was thick and coarse with the new texture of his charcoal peppery addition.

“Why would Sherlock’s brother be interested in talking to Scotland Yard?”

_What?_

Mycroft blinked and stared, wide eyed, too taken aback to keep his facade. How did he know that?

“I didn’t arrest him, y’know,” Greg continued after a beat of silence, eyebrow quirking and corner of his mouth twitching up in a smirk. _Ah._ Mycroft made an effort to get the composure back.

“I assure you, I don’t -“ his voice betrayed him as he tried to stick to the mysterious exterior he anticipated.

“Mr. _Holmes_ ,” Greg continued to elaborate, biting back the growing grin on his face. “The name wasn’t a lie. You’re too young to be a parent or uncle, but too concerned to be someone outside of his immediate family. Plus the namesake - brother, then.”

After another beat, Lestrade added, “not much of a resemblance, though.” Mycroft smiled at this and Greg chuckled.

“Clever, Sergeant,” Mycroft cleared his throat, regaining his wherewithal. “Mycroft Holmes,” he introduced with an outstretched hand. Greg took it and shook once firmly. 

“You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question.

“Indeed, I do,” Mycroft crossed one leg over the other, body angled toward his guest. He was now more interested to see how Lestrade would steer the conversation, so he let the silence linger.

“What do you do then?” he exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. The car was extremely warm with the blaring heat and Mycroft could see a light blush creeping up his neck.

“Off you go, make a deduction,” Mycroft replied with a wave of his hand. The engine rumbled as the car began to move on its way to Lestrade’s flat, although he didn’t seem worried about where he was going. _Interesting._

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but with an amused slanted grin he narrowed his gaze, eyes roaming his company. Mycroft exhaled a shaky breath, releasing shallow exhales as he focused on keeping his face as neutral as possible despite his pulse picking up with an incessant thrum. _What is happening to him?_

“Government,” Greg rationalized, eyes still roaming as he continued to ramble stream of consciousness. “Not politician, but not administrative work either. Something with security or at least you have access to a lot, nothing that requires you to be in the public eye.”

“I’m impressed,” Mycroft smirked.

Who the hell was he? Mycroft Holmes was the epitome of stoicism and self-control and yet within the first five minutes of meeting Greg Lestrade he was playing the role of a coy schoolgirl.He could hear Sherlock now, _flirting, brother mine, is not becoming of you._ Was he flirting? Through observations and assumptions? Well that’s new. 

Greg chuckled, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. “Cheers for that. Don’t mean to impress you, though. Would’ve been easier if you just told me,” his tone turned to a frustrated grumble, but his eyes showed amusement. “So I’m going to ask you again, what do you want? To kidnap a member of Scotland Yard? You’ve succeeded, though it wasn’t that difficult apparently.”

“The doors are unlocked, Gregory, you are hardly being kidnapped,” Mycroft’s words were innocent, but his insides were on fire. Why the _hell_ had he been so informal? Greg shuddered.

“Not even my ma calls me that.”

“Is there another name you would-“

“Nah, you can call me whatever you want.” There was a beat and Greg suddenly looked mortified at his oddly affectionate tone, the flush from the warm car turning into a deep crimson blush at his cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sergeant Lestrade,” Mycroft decided to change the subject and try a different title. “It has come to my attention that you have had some - _dealings_ with my brother, Sherlock.” Greg didn’t react, only shifting a bit in his seat. “And despite your better judgment you decided not to arrest him.”

“Brilliant kid. Not sure how he knew all that,” Greg was talking more to himself now, rubbing the back of his neck and turning away. “Is he, uh, interested in a Yard gig? ‘Cause I don’t have much pull there.”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft’s contradiction made Lestrade shift his eye contact back to him. “My brother and I share a gift.”

“The observation thing?”

Mycroft smiled with a curt nod. “While I choose to use mine in a constructive way, he chooses instead to seek a selfish challenge. Something to test his wits, so to speak. His ability is extremely promising and while I do not necessarily agree with his decisions, the alternative is quite destructive.”

“I still don’t understand -“

“My brother has taken an interest in your cases. Ever since he was a boy he had been able to solve any cold case just from glancing at the headlines on the morning papers.”

Young Sherlock with a mop of curls atop his head, limbs too long and curled around his knees as he crouched on the dining room chair rambling the case details to Mycroft as if testing to see if he got it all right. Mycroft smiled at the memory.

“I am hoping that you will, if he is still interested, encourage and allow him to assist you.”

Greg swallowed and his jaw clenched. “You think I need the help?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Certainly not.”

Greg stared and time slipped away as Mycroft realized he was trying to read the situation, assess the threat, analyze the variables. Perfect reflex from the law enforcement officer. “This has to be illegal.”

“What part?” Mycroft asked innocently.

Lestrade guffawed. “The whole of it. Look, I’m trying to keep a low profile right now. I can’t afford to lose this job,” Greg ran his palms over his jean-clad thighs. “How am I supposed to allow a civilian on one of my cases? Handling confidential information? Talking to witnesses? Where’s that going to go in my report?”

“I assure you in this instance it isn’t illegal,” Mycroft replied carefully. Greg mouthed ‘in this instance’ and huffed another incredulous laugh. “Sergeant, you and I both know that there is a promotion in your future.”

Greg’s posture straightened at the mention of a potential detective inspector role. “You’re bribing me.”

“No.”

“Look, say I play along,” Greg’s posture was stiff as his stare bore into Mycroft’s. “Say I convince the Yard to let him in on cases, like some kind of unofficial glorified intern, then what? What happens when the DI finds out?” Mycroft didn’t respond right away, so Greg broke their gaze and said more quietly, “what happens when your brother shows up high to my crime scene?”

“You would refuse his assistance,” Mycroft replied concisely. “I assure you, Sergeant Lestrade,” Lestrade sighed heavily, so he corrected himself, “ _Greg_ , this will not affect your job or current standing. My brother merely needs a distraction to-“

“I empathize with you, Mycroft, I really do, but I’ve been down this road before and addicts don’t need distractions they need _help_.” The car slowed to a stop outside Lestrade’s home.

Mycroft stared at his lap, wringing his hands together. He thought he had a handle on this situation. He thought this would work. Where had he miscalculated? He had spent months surveying and yet in one moment Greg was able to read Mycroft like an open book. It was infuriating. Of course a sergeant would notice his brother’s withdrawal symptoms, but to be called out on how he is handling his personal dealings - this was _not_ how tonight was supposed to go.

_Focus, redirect._

_‘_ Empathize’? What did that mean? Ah, a drug addiction himself. No, the shame and redefined confidence is not there. Was it a sibling then? The understanding in his gaze must lean toward sibling. There is no other explanation for him to be so open to talking to a complete stranger? Surely a member of Scotland Yard knew he was not in any danger, but to _empathize_ with a complete stranger was a leap. Simple.

Seems like Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade had a bit more in common than originally anticipated.

“Look, do you want to come up?” Mycroft’s eyes shot up at the suggestion. “Just seems like you might need someone to talk to right now and not sure how much you know about me, but I can probably understand a bit better than some other mates of yours-“

“Thank you, Sergeant Lestrade,” Mycroft cut him off, “but I must decline. Have a good evening.” As if on cue, Anthea opened the car door for him. Lestrade glanced at the door and ignored it.

“I have been in your place before,” Lestrade continued. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I am available. I don’t need to be under surveillance or whatever to maintain that discretion, by the way,” he smirked, trying to lighten the atmosphere with a bit of humor. It wasn’t working.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Mycroft replied, turning to face ahead. Lestrade lingered another moment or so before leaning to get out of the car.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Mycroft repeated, a bit softer.

“Offer still stands,” Lestrade said before the car door shut behind him.

 


	4. Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The connection they shared was both heart wrenching and serene. When Mycroft was around he felt magnetized, gravitating toward him despite the circumstances. There was comfort in having understanding in their mirrored situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was named after "Ask" by The Smiths. Check out the playlist: http://spoti.fi/2svm9Js

It had been about two weeks since Greg had met the Holmes brothers. The hypothermia case was closed. The woman was murdered by her husband, a physician who expedited her cancer using experimental methods including thermotherapy or hypothermia treatment in order to cash in on her life insurance. Feeling regret, he left her at their regular sauna, hoping the heat would reverse the effects and buy him more time, but instead the drastic shift in temperature caused her fatal heart attack. 

Two weeks and quite a bit more happened, if you can believe that.

He was promoted to Detective Inspector as Pitts was promoted to Chief Superintendent. He would have been keen, but the timing was a bit off. Part of him wondered if Mycroft had any hand in it, but since he hadn’t seen either of the Holmes brothers since their first encounter. Greg was always pretty good at leaving his cases and the emotions at work. Still, the Holmes story hit too close to home for him to not worry about them.

He also didn’t have anyone to celebrate his achievements with. Zoe was sick with the flu and despite asking Sam if she need help, he knew she would say no. He wasn’t a hypochondriac, but he was close enough. 

Greg heard from his wife, Christina, via voicemail - perfectly timed so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. _Congrats, Greg. Would have been nice if_ you _told me and not a friend from work. Cheers._

So he took the new title, got his new office, and kept on with his days. His sleep schedule was a bit out of whack and he was getting to the office earlier and earlier. Last night he hadn’t slept much at all. He got to the office when there were only two or three people in. He nodded briefly and brushed past to get to his office without morning chatter.

He closed the door behind him, stretching one arm over his head and behind his back, grunting at the stretch of muscles. His desk was packed with old case files that he was still looking over from transitioning over to DI. Cold cases that were months, years, even decades old. He turned his back to the desk and put the electric kettle on. 

That simple act triggered a memory with Dan. Popping on the kettle as his brother stood by the island in the kitchen. Just a normal day, before the drugs, before the chaos. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. There was nothing he could have done - at least that’s what his therapist told him. He stopped seeing her about six months ago when they went back to Dan’s first high. He didn’t want to relive _all_ of it. 

He sat down in his chair, pushing it away from the desk and facing the window as he leaned back and closed his eyes. He focused on the noise of the kettle, trying to empty his mind. All coping strategies from therapy. They were helpful and he should probably go back, but he wasn’t ready. 

There was a loud bang from outside his window and Lestrade’s eyes shot open. He looked out and saw a familiar silhouette stumbling down the street, a ridiculously gaudy coat billowing around, making him look somewhat graceful. Greg squinted as if not trusting his eyes, but noticed Sherlock was coming toward the front of New Scotland Yard.

Before Greg could think, he bounded out the front door and cornered Sherlock in a nearby alley. If Greg was going to consider allowing him on cases, he had to make sure his team didn’t see him in this state.

Sherlock’s clothes were wrinkled as if he slept in them, his hair damp from the rain and almost matted to his forehead. His hands were shaking, his smile hazy. One look at his eyes and Greg knew right away. 

“Good morning, Detective Inspector!” Sherlock bellowed, his voice much too loud for the small space. He was pushing Lestrade aside, trying to make it toward the building. “I was just going to meet you at your new office. How are the new-“

Greg stood his ground, stepping in front of Sherlock’s path. “How much did you take?” 

Sherlock waved a hand in his face and Greg gripped his chin, turning his head to look directly in his eyes. He choked on an intake of breath. He knew that look. 

“Piss off,” Sherlock growled, but his voice was hoarse and it came out as a more incoherent garble than proper english. He pushed out of Lestrade’s grip. Greg stepped back because sure enough, Sherlock slumped down, unable to hold himself up. His eyelids drooped and lost focus. 

Greg tilted his head up, tapping both cheeks. “Come on, kid, stay with me here.” Sherlock blinked rapidly and seemed to come to. 

“Do you have a case for me?” 

“I am not—what?” 

“Dull. I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He sniffed, his whole body shuddering as if shutting down and restarting the modem, before his eyes unfocused again. 

“Christ,” Greg moved to crouch beside him. As Sherlock came to again, he sat back on his heels. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“Really, Inspector?” Sherlock drawled, saliva slipping from his mouth. “You seem to have it under control. You’ve done this before and we both know-”

“You’re high as a kite!” Greg grunted, searching his coat pockets for his mobile and dialing 999. 

“I was bored,” Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes as if he’s repeated this excuse dozens of times.

“Tell me what and how much you’ve taken,” Greg interrupted, the connection crackling in his ears. Sherlock fought to swat the phone away from his grip. Greg shifted away, cradling the phone between shoulder and cheek so he could push up Sherlock’s sleeve to find his arm littered with track marks. Sherlock hissed and pulled his arm back, cradling it in his lap. “I’m not going to ask again, Sherlock.”

“Technically you didn’t ask that time,” he grunted, shuffling around in his seat to put an uncoordinated hand into his jacket pocket. His eyes lost focus again and his body stilled. Lestrade followed his hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out a bit of paper. On it was the answer. He’d done this before then, _brilliant._

Once Greg hung up with the operator, he turned back to Sherlock who was trying to get up. “Oi, what are you doing? Sit down,” he put a hand on his shoulder. 

“They’re going to call him,” Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the brick wall. Greg kept quiet, knowing he meant his brother and whatever that familial reaction would entail.

“Why did you come to me?” he asked, watching Sherlock’s brow furrow and stay silent. It was turning into an interrogation. He kneeled next to him on the pavement, opposite Sherlock and leaned forward.

Greg softened his voice as he continued, “I can cut you a deal, kid.” Sherlock’s ears perked up, but his posture didn’t shift. “I’ll let you help with some cold cases - but you have to be on site with me. You can’t go off on your own. And you have to be sober.” 

Sherlock huffed out a breath, eyes opening as he studied Lestrade. 

“You like the adrenaline rush, right? You can, I dunno, substitute it with some cases, but you _have_ to be sober,” Greg continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wrecks your credibility otherwise.”

Sherlock smirked and leaned his head back, closing his eyes again. “How long has it been, Inspector?” 

“What?” 

Sherlock had a knowing smile. “How long has it been since your brother passed?” 

Greg was paralyzed, letting out a large breath. This was the second time Sherlock brought up Daniel. This time, though, Greg recognized it was because Sherlock knew _how_ Dan died. “You probably know the answer to that.”

Sherlock hummed. “I do, but I thought it was polite to ask all the same.” 

Greg chuckled a bitter laugh. He thought Sherlock was a heartless bastard, but it seemed like he had a bit of humanity left in him. 

“I’ll take you up on your offer, Lestrade. I am a user, not an addict. Like I said, I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes. I certainly don’t need this to help you lot.” 

With that, the ambulance arrived. Sherlock was being poked and prodded with various equipment before being hauled onto a stretcher. He was still in and out of consciousness, but managed to wink and grumble, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Graham.” 

_Ah_ , here was the Sherlock he knew. “It’s _Greg_.”

What a great way to spend a morning. Greg day was pretty uneventful, although he kept glancing at his desk phone, waiting for an inevitable call or check in. Nothing came. He considered going to the hospital, but thought against it. If Sherlock held his end of the bargain, he would see him soon enough. Not to mention, Greg knew the signs. This was a mild overdose. He had seen Dan go through much worse. The amount that Sherlock took and the way his body was easily absorbing it, looking for more, made him shudder. He wondered how long he’s been using. 

Still preoccupied with the morning, Greg decided to walk much of the way home. He got home at a reasonable time and headed to his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and changing into some sweats and an old t-shirt worn through from excessive wash. He stretched his arms back, swinging them at his sides to release some tension. 

He walked back to his living room, popping on a record - The Smiths, of course - and went to rummage around the kitchen. He turned up the volume on his speakers, letting the music try and permeate his brain and rush out the racing memories of the day. Any moment he closed his eyes, even for a blink, Sherlock’s cold body on the pavement would transform into Daniel and back again. 

There was a knock at his front door that brought him back. He didn't react at first, really not expecting anyone. He assumed it was the woman upstairs, who always seemed to drop anything of significant weight at all hours of the day. When the next knock came, he took notice. 

“Mycroft,” he greeted with genuine surprise, stepping back to take in the man before him. Mycroft was impeccably dressed, like last time, but had one top button undone on his shirt. This must be a casual look for him. 

In one hand he had a bottle of presumably expensive scotch and in the other an umbrella, a bit damp from the rain. His limbs were drowned in excess fabric, tailored to fit a man a bit larger round the middle. 

“Peace offering,” Mycroft said plainly with an authentic smile, holding up the scotch. 

“Peace offering,” Greg echoed, squinting at the man at his front door. As he stared, Greg noticed a light flush to Mycroft’s cheeks that hadn’t been there before. He smirked and stepped back. “Well, come in then.” 

Mycroft ducked his head as he passed Greg and walked into his flat. Lestrade closed the door behind them, locking it and turning to watch Mycroft take in his surroundings. Greg took his coat and umbrella, putting it on the hook by the front door and went to turn down the music. 

Greg had made him blush. This posh uptight man with a dysfunctional family, priding himself on always being one step ahead of everyone, blushed from a simple stare. It was quite flattering. 

Greg had always been attracted to men and women. He was openly bisexual, although he never really brought up his sexuality unless it was to contradict someone who assumed he was straight or gay. Chris, his wife, was the first woman he had been with in a while. He had only dated women in college, only men in university, and then Chris came along and well, he’s been off the scene for a bit. 

He shouldn’t really be thinking about this what with Mycroft and his brother, but he couldn’t help remembering the thick air of electricity between them the first time they met. And Greg was lonely, he’d admit it. 

“How is Sherlock?” Greg asked, heading to the kitchen and grabbing two glasses from the top shelf. 

“Alive,” Mycroft muttered and then both of them cringed. “Sorry.” Ah, so Mycroft knew too. Greg waved a hand, not taking offense. He didn’t mean it. 

Greg opened the scotch and poured the glasses, sliding one across the countertop to Mycroft. 

“I wanted to thank you for your,” Mycroft paused as if not knowing how to describe the day, before reconsidering. “I wanted to thank you,” he amended, picking up his glass and holding it out.

Greg clinked glasses, taking a sip and putting it back on the counter, looking down. “So you bring over bloody expensive scotch to thank me?” he asked, looking up from beneath his lashes with a smirk.

“I wanted to thank you and the scotch was a peace offering,” Mycroft seemed flustered. “I don't think we started off on the best of terms and I wanted to smooth things over, so to speak.” 

Greg chuckled and took another sip, heading toward the living room and gesturing for Mycroft to take a seat as well. “And you thought I’d like a drink?”

“No, I-“ Mycroft sat on the furthest end of the large sofa, crossing one leg over the other and blinked rapidly. “Honestly, I don’t know why you are reading into this.”

“Just having a bit of fun,” Greg replied with a smirk behind his glass. “You came to talk. You took me up on my offer.” Mycroft’s gaze shifted to other bits and bobs around the room, refusing to look at Greg and confirm his observation. “You can tell me if you don’t want to talk about it, but I just have to ask. How are _you_ doing?”

Mycroft sighed, his fingertips tapping the glass in his lap. “Fine.”

“Don’t seem fine,” Greg replied, crossing his legs and turning to face him. Mycroft’s jaw clenched and he swallowed, his neck reddening with frustration and embarrassment. 

“I assure you I am all right,” he spat, turning to glare at Greg, who just looked on with compassion. Immediately his gaze softened and his lip quivered. He took another shaky sip of scotch and looked down in his lap, his breathing heavy and methodical as if fighting back the sentiment.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” Greg asked with no reply. “All right, I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell you do. What does a posh bloke in his posh boy clothes do to have the government’s surveillance at his beck and call, hm?” 

Mycroft smiled and continued to drum his fingers on the glass, looking down. “Did you come up with anything, Detective Inspector?” 

“‘Course you know about the promotion,” Greg smiled back. “Ah, no, I have theories that I could run by you, but they’re a bit embarrassing is all. I need to hold out a bit longer, collect more data.” Mycroft’s lip quivered again and he sniffled. “Myc-“ 

“How did you stand it?” he interrupted. “I do everything to make sure he is all right, that he’s safe, and he still goes right back to it. Almost to spite me!” 

“I don’t know about Sherlock,” Greg began cautiously. “But for Dan it was beyond my influence. He was too far gone. It was chemical, you know, he couldn’t help it.” Mycroft didn’t react and Greg leaned forward, shifting to the next cushion. Sometimes proximity was enough to help him through these bouts and he hoped it was the same for Mycroft. 

“You can’t blame yourself,” Greg continued, still staring although Mycroft wasn’t reciprocating eye contact. “How many times has he been in rehab?” 

“Countless times,” Mycroft scoffed, finishing the rest of his glass. Greg got up to bring in the bottle from the kitchen, refilling both their glasses and handing the now full glass back to Mycroft. 

“Does he always keep a list?” Greg sat back down, closer this time. Mycroft stiffened for a moment and then relaxed. 

“Yes,” he replied simply. Greg didn’t pry. 

The turntable made a noise as the record ended. Greg didn’t move to turn it off and Mycroft finally turned to look at him. 

“Do you have anything else?” he asked with a smirk. Greg chuckled and leaned back. 

“You really come into my flat and tell me my music is shite?” he asked with another chuckle, getting up and taking a swig of his scotch. He held out his hand and Mycroft took it to get up from the sofa, following him over to his record collection. 

“I would never insult you in your own home, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, his smile growing as he sifted through some records. He pulled out a Sinatra record that Sam had given him for “nights of seduction.” 

Mycroft turned and raised his eyebrows, asking permission. Greg granted it with a nod, stepping back as he watched Mycroft remove and replace the record with careful precision. The speakers crackled as the needle found the first groove and off it went. 

As the big band began to wail, Mycroft closed his eyes and hummed, gripping his glass and holding it against his lips as if to take another sip, but getting lost in the music. Greg watched in amusement, taking another long swig of scotch and placing it on the side table. 

“Haven’t seen this kind of reaction from Sinatra in a while,” he mused. “Bit of a lightweight, eh, Holmes?” 

Mycroft’s eyes shot open and his cheeks flushed. “How dare - I’m not-“

“Relax,” Greg laughed, putting his hands up in surrender. Mycroft huffed and took a sip, turning back toward his record collection. Greg watched his eyes dart around the stacks of records, pulling a few out to look before putting them back.

His heart began to race, his palms a bit damp. The connection they shared was both heart wrenching and serene. When Mycroft was around he felt magnetized, gravitating toward him despite the circumstances. There was comfort in having understanding in their mirrored situation.

It was also a bit funny, this. Mycroft in his impeccable suit and Greg slumming it in sweats. Perhaps it was the commonality, perhaps it was the scotch. Whatever prompted it, Greg felt a bit more daring with his liquid courage and stepped behind Mycroft to whisper, “Do you dance?”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat, but he quickly composed himself. “You don’t have to -“ 

Greg hesitantly put a hand on Mycroft’s hip and when he didn’t turn away, he moved his head to place his lips close to his ear, which earned him a shudder. “I’m asking if you’d like to dance with me.” Mycroft stayed silent, but closed his eyes and his body relaxed. “Just one dance, Mycroft.” 

“Yes,” he breathed, blinking rapidly and turning to look at Greg, their faces mere inches apart. Greg grabbed his glass and placed it next to his on the table. 

Greg moved a hand to his waist, sliding it behind to rest on the dip of his lower back. Mycroft rested a hand on his upper arm and the other on his shoulder, breathing out slowly. They began to step back and forth, shifting their weight from either foot and rocking to each down and off-beat. 

“Danced with many a gentleman, hm?” Greg smirked, still sensing some tension in his dance partner’s posture. 

“You call yourself a gentleman?” Mycroft quipped, eyes drifting lower down his face. Greg licked his lips reflexively. 

“Touché,” Lestrade countered with a smile. They rocked a bit more before Mycroft leaned his cheek on Greg’s shoulder, his breath warm against his neck. Greg fought back a shiver. 

They enjoyed their conversational silence, getting swept up in the swelling of the raspy brass instruments and the smooth vocals. As the song came to an end, neither of them stopped the pace and neither of them let go. They continued to dance through to the next song and the next. Greg felt Mycroft melt in his arms and he pulled him closer, their chests pressed against one another. Mycroft’s pulse was slow, his breath shallow, and his eyes drifting closed. 

“You’re falling asleep on me, Holmes,” Greg murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. Mycroft hummed in response, his nose nuzzling Greg’s neck. “Mycroft,” he turned his head so he could whisper in his ear. Mycroft didn’t stir. 

Greg shifted back a bit, but Mycroft was dead weight and he could have sworn he heard a bit of snoring. He smiled a bit. Mycroft was a sleepy drunk. That was - cute. 

He ducked down a bit to scoop an arm under his knees, carrying him over to the couch. He tried to shift to allow him to lie down on his own, but Mycroft’s body shifted to fall too quickly and Greg sat down in a huff, trying to catch him. Mycroft didn’t stir, but immediately laid down, his head resting in Greg’s lap. 

Greg grabbed a pillow and lifted Mycroft’s head to put the cushion in his place and hopefully slip out from under him, but Mycroft only nuzzled closer. He gave up and leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes and letting the veil of exhaustion take him away, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be a fun one! Thanks for reading. :)


	5. Here Comes Your Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sentiment is a weakness,” Mycroft began and Anthea held up her hand to stop him.  
> “Not this speech again,” she grumbled. “You are not an unfeeling cyborg, Holmes. You are a living, breathing man. You can feel, you can emote. Quite frankly, you deserve this. I know it is not normal for you, but with everything you are going through with your brother, why not embrace that things are actually looking up for once?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was named after Here Comes Your Man by Pixies. Check out the playlist: http://spoti.fi/2svm9Js

Mycroft was pacing back and forth in front of his closet, his steps a brisk muffled shuffle, sock against carpet. He had an arm held against his torso, the other arm coming up to rub absently against his stubble. His gaze was distant, following wherever his mind was traveling. 

Anthea stood in the doorway, observing, choosing not to make her presence known just yet. The fact that she could even do that was enough to make her wary. Mycroft never indulged in many distractions unless they pertained to his brother. Greg Lestrade was drifting from the distractions that Sherlock’s protection warranted.

Although she was paid to, Anthea was quite proud of how well she knew the eldest Holmes brother. A twitch of the eyelash, a flick of the wrist, or the slightest depth on an exhale and she would know how to proceed. These were all in more formal settings and in these moments it was essential for her to anticipate his next thought. In his personal life, however, Anthea was a bit more underprepared.

Her surveillance on Mycroft Holmes never ceased. Anytime he was physically out of her sight, Anthea was watching his every move electronically. On the night Mycroft visited a certain detective inspector, Anthea was idling in the car outside his flat. This also meant that Anthea knew he didn’t emerge from said flat until early the next morning, ducking into the car with a flush on his cheeks. Neither of them spoke of it.

They didn’t speak of the other few times Mycroft just happened to be in the neighborhood of this same flat.

“Well don’t just stand there,” Mycroft quipped, not stopping his pace. Anthea jumped a bit and tipped her head in apology, going into Mycroft’s bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

“You asked for me,” she stated, crossing in front of him to hang up his freshly laundered clothes. It hadn’t been long into her workings with Mycroft that she began the role of personal assistant. It never bothered her, Mycroft had done a lot for her, even hiring her in the first place.

She was a personal assistant for a pretty influential politician stationed in London. She had met Mycroft on her first day of work after choosing not to pursue a military career as she originally planned in uni. While she moved up the ladder rather quickly, Anthea should have been pleased with herself, but instead she feared each new step. Her boss seemed to think he was immune from law enforcement right around the time he hit the bottle harder than usual and that’s when his sexual advances began.

Mycroft walked in on one of these moments and before Anthea could process what was happening, her boss was removed from the premises - and potentially the continent. Her fear for losing her job was short-lived as Mycroft immediately offered her a role much lower, but with more pay.

She’s dabbled in everything from personal and professional assistants to body guard, allowing Mycroft to use her military experience. He offered her a flat until she was situated and always respected her privacy. He never brought up her previous employer, only listening when she wanted to speak. She was grateful.

“Thank you,” he muttered a genuine acknowledgment. _Nothing ever went without a thank you_.

“Do you need anything else?” she stepped back and paused, lingering by the corner of the room, out of the way of his stride, but in his view. He looked up at her and paused, a wrecked look on his face. “Sir?”

“It’s silly. Ridiculous, even,” Mycroft flushed and ducked his head, rubbing both hands over his face. He glanced toward the door, not registering it had been shut on Anthea’s arrival.

“What is?” She crossed the room to his record player, turning the vinyl that was already on the track and pressing play. Music was always an immediate stress reliever for Mycroft Holmes. A blessing for Anthea.

Mycroft let out a heavy audible sigh of relief as the beginnings of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice crooned over the room. “It’s nothing, truly. A waste of your time.”

Anthea sat in a plush arm chair, crossing her legs and putting her phone facedown on the adjacent table. “Try me,” she smiled.

Mycroft stopped, staring intently with an excruciatingly focused gaze. “The case was solved,” he stated carefully, his voice slow as if each syllable was calculated and measured.

“Ah, yes, the ‘headless nun’ is that what Sherlock is calling it?” Anthea smirked and Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the title. Anthea didn’t find anything wrong with the crudeness of it, after all both of them came from somewhat haphazard boarding schools. Only natural for Sherlock to find a little pleasure in naming the case.

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded curtly and backed to take a seat on the bench at the foot of his bed. “Another case solved, another day sober. I just- that is to say, I wanted to,“ he ducked his head, cheeks flushing again.

Anthea leaned back in her chair, patient as always. She knew that Mycroft was irritated when others would anticipate somewhat more fragile thoughts before he was able to articulate them himself. His anxiety was heightened during personal matters, but dropped completely in work - a coping mechanism of sorts.

“I invited Detective Inspector Lestrade to dinner,” the words tumbled out of his mouth before his mind could catch up, his eyes widening in surprise. “To thank him,” he quickly amended.

“Ah,” Anthea replied with a smile, leaning forward in her chair. “He said yes, I’m guessing.”

Mycroft nodded, finally making eye contact and again, his face looked wrecked with emotion. They had conversations like this sparingly. Mycroft would let his guard down, confide in Anthea and they wouldn’t speak of it again unless he allowed it. Much of the time it dealt with his brother. She hadn’t had to dip into relationship advice before - first time for everything. Sometimes Mycroft Holmes needed a friend. Today was one of those days, apparently.

Anthea softened her approach, raising an eyebrow in question. Mycroft nodded. _Formalities dropped, then._

“What are you afraid of?” Anthea asked, moving to sit next to him on the bench. Forced eye contact was always hard for Mycroft in these moments, but proximity helped. Her arm pressed against his, a silent reminder that he was safe.

“I’m not afraid,” he replied, though his tone of voice contradicted him. He seemed to notice so he continued in one rushed breath, “sentiment is not something that I need nor have the capacity to sustain.”

“Mycroft,” Anthea began, putting a hand on his knee and squeezing gently. “It’s just me here,” she gently reminded.

“He’s married,” Mycroft tried again.

“Separated,” Anthea retorted, bumping his shoulder.

“My work schedule is unpredictable,” he continued, confident on this one. “I could be in Prague tomorrow for three months.”

“His schedule is unpredictable, too,” Anthea replied with a light chuckle. “You are both workaholics, so work is not an excuse, but an exception. He would understand. And Prague? _Really?”_

“I was in Tibet for six months just last year,” his voice that of a petulant child needing to win the argument.

“Not Prague.”

“He’s straight,” he added, almost sounding hysterical. Anthea just raised an eyebrow at that, looking at him until they fell into peels of laughter.

“Mycroft, honestly,” Anthea chided. “Tell me about the other night. You went to his flat and didn’t come back until half four.”

“I fell asleep there,” he replied quickly, almost cutting her off. He stood up and began to pace again, this time in front of her. “You of all people know I haven't been sleeping well.”

“Before the sleeping,” Anthea pried, crossing her legs into her lap and running her hands over her trouser-clad thighs. “Tell me more about _Gregory_.”

Mycroft stopped to glare at her before picking up his pace again. “We shared a drink.” He didn’t continue.

“ _And?_ ” Anthea sighed, exasperated.

“We just talked about shared commonalities,” he waved a hand, dismissive. “He was listening to ridiculous music, so I asked him to change it. He let me go through his record collection and then he, er, asked me to dance.” His face blushed ripe like a tomato. Anthea swallowed down a yelp of glee.

“And?” she asked, her pitch higher. She bit her lower lip to hide back a grin. Mycroft glanced at her to see her reaction, forcing back a smile of his own as he gained confidence from the excitement in the room.

“We just danced and I seemed to,” he paused to gulp. “Seemed to, um, fall asleep.”

“While dancing with him? Not a good dancer then?” Anthea smirked.

“No!” Mycroft hurried to correct her. “It was slow, the flat was warm, I hadn’t gotten much sleep, so-“

“Mycroft!” Anthea squealed, jumping up. “Let me get this right. You go over to this man’s flat, share a drink, share a bit of a dance and fall asleep in his arms. He asks you over every night for the next week and you are questioning if he _fancies_ you? Honestly!”

“Anthea,” he warned and she clasped a hand over her mouth, putting another up in surrender.

“Sorry,” she whispered, stepping up to rest a hand on his upper arm and squeezed gently. “I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“Sentiment is a weakness,” Mycroft began and Anthea held up her hand to stop him.

“Not this speech again,” she grumbled. “You are not an unfeeling cyborg, Holmes. You are a living, breathing man. You can feel, you can emote. Quite frankly, you deserve this. I know it is not normal for you, but with everything you are going through with your brother, why not embrace that things are actually looking up for once?” 

“Nothing just _goes well_ ,” Mycroft replied, falling back in the mustard colored arm chair at the end of his room. Anthea crossed to sit on the matching ottoman in front of him. He was mentally pushing her away, but that meant it was working. He knew she was right.

“Things do go well, only if you allow them to,” she replied with a soft encouraging smile. “Do you ever consider that your views on sentiment will actually hurt you in the end? Companionship is human nature.”

Mycroft looked down in his lap, wringing his hands. She’d seen this nervous tick quite a bit, always when he was attempting to regain control, asserting his emotionless exterior.

“It will affect the work,” he replied, dismissive.

“It will _not_ affect your work,” Anthea replied. “And if it does, I will tell you or make arrangements.”

“You will do no such thing,” he said in horror. Anthea smirked, rolling her eyes and leaning back.

“Can you allow yourself some fun?” she asked, smiling at Mycroft’s maddened look. “Worth a try, hm?” she laughed.

“Shall I help you get dressed?” she asked, nodding back toward his closet and reminding him of the task he was stuck on when she walked in.

“As if I couldn’t dress myself,” Mycroft grumbled, but sheepishly accepted the help.

After much deliberation and details as to _where_ they were headed - wherever Greg felt comfortable, which meant his local - Anthea chose the perfect blend of traditional Mycroft and casual enough to not be his normal work attire. It had to be comfortable for him, something to ease him up a bit.

Black trousers, black oxfords, giving his legs length - as if they needed the help. He wore a light, crisp slate blue and white pinstripe shirt, a traditional tweed vest layered and buttoned on top with a matching gray bowtie. She really had to fight him on the bowtie. He donned his normal accessories, a watch passed on from his grandfather and a sour look on his face.

“You look great,” Anthea admired from behind him as Mycroft looked on in the mirror, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt, rolling them up to just below his elbow.

“He should arrive any moment, if you need to-“

“He’s already here, waiting in the sitting room,” she replied with a wink, fetching her phone from the end table and tapping away.

“How did you- how long has he been waiting?” Mycroft’s face blushed a deep crimson. He stuttered when he was nervous.

“Only about ten minutes. Didn’t want to rush you,” she glanced up to see his eyes widen and she quickly amended, “You’re fine, he was early anyway. Eager, that one.” She stepped up to adjust his vest and smiled. “Remember you deserve this… and remember to breathe.”

Mycroft smiled, a true genuine smile, and she wanted to take a picture she was so pleased. _Make a note, Anthea._ She grabbed his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and then moved to open the door, heading down the hall to the sitting room.

Greg was standing by the fireplace, eyes scanning the three full bookshelves. He was clad in medium wash blue jeans, a navy blue henley and tan thick textured cardigan over top. The sleeves were rolled up a quarter of the way. Anthea cleared her throat, giving Mycroft one last look of encouragement.

When their eyes met, Anthea couldn’t help but smile. Eyes lingered, catching the newness of their appearance, and their eyes locked back with blushes to match.

“Detective Inspector,” Anthea greeted, stepping up and holding out her hand. “Anthea. We’ve met, although perhaps not under the most honest of circumstances.”

“Ah, yeah,” Greg chuckled nervously, taking her hand in earnest. “You can call me Greg. Not really into titles when I’m off the clock.”

“Greg, then,” she amended, smiling. She turned back to Mycroft, spinning on her heel. “Well I best be off.” With her back to Greg, she winked at Mycroft, who blushed deeper - if that was even possible.

“Nice meeting you,” Greg called after her speedy exit.

Anthea popped off into the study, shutting the door behind her and heading over to the desk, sitting back in her chair. She heard the small murmurings from the other room and grinned, popping on her phone and hesitating as she hovered over the surveillance stream. She could keep an eye on things _or_ mind her business - fuck it. She deserves to see this at least for the beginning of the evening.

The stream started immediately, his sitting room illuminated from the few lamps on in the room. Mycroft was still standing in the doorway where she left him. Greg, however, crossed the room and was smiling, reaching out to take Mycroft’s hand, who was fighting back a smile of his own. Greg dipped his head and whispered into Mycroft’s ear, which had the poor man giggling - had Anthea even heard him giggle before?

Greg lit up at Mycroft’s laugh and joined him. With intertwined hands, they headed to the front door and Anthea stopped the steam. She bit back a grin, closing her eyes. She took a deep breath, hoping that Mycroft Holmes would allow himself to be happy. At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind words, my peeps. Next chapter will be more actual Mystrade. I promise.


	6. Is It Really So Strange?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can certainly admit that I am not the most adept at understanding certain social cues, but I don’t believe I am that inept. I - were… Are you flirting with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is It Really So Strange by The Smiths 
> 
> Check out the jams: http://spoti.fi/2svm9Js

Greg slid a pint of cider into Mycroft’s open hand and sat across him, nudging his knees under the table of the booth. He had a pint of his own pale ale gripped in one unsteady hand, the condensation on the glass making his palms damp. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. 

Okay, he did.

But why was he nervous after countless weeks of seeing Mycroft. After Mycroft showed up to his flat that night weeks ago, he just so happened to be in the area of the Met or Greg’s flat dozens of times after. He could have sworn he saw him behind some yellow police tape, blending into the crowd that Donovan was trying to keep back. Perhaps that one was just a coincidence.

Still, he was nervous as hell after he returned from a case that Sherlock solved earlier that day. He knew someone had been in his office before he even made it through the door. He noticed the abnormality fairly quickly, snatching up the note from his desk and seeing Mycroft’s impeccable penmanship. 

I am willing to try this pub business you talk about. 7 tonight? -MH 

Greg immediately dialed the number written at the bottom of the note to confirm. He had been poking fun at Mycroft’s posh facade, completely appalled that Mycroft had never been to a pub before, so he invited him to his local. Although, now he was unsure of his decision. 

And it wasn’t just Greg who seemed unsure. Even Ross behind the bar, normally comforting in his familiar face, quirked an eyebrow and nodded back at Mycroft, inquisitive as ever. Greg just shrugged and huffed a nervous laugh before grabbing the drinks and rushing back to the table so he didn’t need to explain whatever this was. 

“Bit of a change of pace for you, this,” he mentioned dumbly. Get it together, Greg. Mycroft just smiled curtly, his eyes roaming the cluttered decor. “We can go somewhere else, if you want.”

“This is fine,” Mycroft replied quickly. “Really.” His fingertips tapped nervously at the tall glass in front of him, chasing the dripping condensation down the side.

Greg sat in the silence, giving him some space. He’d learned fairly quickly that Mycroft’s social anxieties meant that silence was a reprieve. He was able to assess, reconstruct, and push forward. He always needed a bit of a buffer time for the first few moments of being around Greg. He could handle that. 

“Tell me about your niece,” Mycroft mentioned, quite randomly. Greg quirked his head and smiled. 

“Saw the photo did you?” he replied, remembering Mycroft had been at his office, meaning he had seen the rather large picture of Samantha and Zoe on his desk. 

Mycroft merely smiled in response, hiding it behind the rim of his pint. Greg tried to ignore the ache in his chest. 

“Ah, Zoe is amazing,” Greg began with a huff and a laugh. “I’m not just saying that as her uncle and all. She is a good kid, a really good kid. She’s talented, too. She’s always got her head in a book, way too old for her. When she stays at mine I have to make sure she’s not awake under the covers reading. Curious as hell, that one.”

“Do you see her often?” Mycroft asked, putting his glass back on the table and gripping it between both hands.

“Would love to see her more, to be honest,” Greg muttered. “Every week I pick her up when Sam - her ma - needs me to. She’s stubborn, though, Sam. She doesn’t like asking for help and I’m sure she needs more than she lets on.” There was a pause and Greg took another gulp of his pint. 

“How old was she?” Mycroft asked and Greg gritted his teeth, knowing exactly what that meant. How old was she when her father passed?

“Too young to remember much,” he replied grimly. “She’ll just have pictures and stories, I suppose. Christ, she looks like him, though.” 

Greg stared off at a point on the table, his mind leaving the quaint little pub for a moment as he remembered Dan holding the tiny little bundle that was Zoe. How happy he looked. How happy they all looked. How short-lived that happiness was. 

The light pressure of a hand resting atop his broke him out of his memory. He looked up to see Mycroft looking at him with a smile, without pity, without apology, just with genuine authentic empathy. It was refreshing.

“Where’d you go just now?” he asked, his head dipping so he looked up from beneath his lashes. 

“Ah, just uh, remembering Dan when Z was born,” he shrugged, clearing his throat and taking another sip of beer. He wrapped his pinky from underneath Mycroft’s hand around his finger and squeezed. “What about you, then? What about your family?” 

Mycroft withdrew his hand quickly at that and looked down into his glass. “Well you know my brother, surely that’s enough.” Ah, struck a chord there. 

“Sorry,” Greg replied reflexively, not even really sure what he was apologizing for. Mycroft seemed to immediately realize his error, sighing heavily and taking a sip of his cider. 

“Nonsense, Gregory. My apologies,” he began, spinning his glass in one hand on the table. “Family is not - what I mean to say is that, while some seem to… Surely you can understand since… that is to say, I-“

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted with a smirk, covering his hand on his glass and stopping the nervous twirling. “It’s all right. Don’t owe me an explanation. Family’s off-limits. Got it.” Mycroft winced a smile and ducked his head, cheeks flushing. 

“Not off-limits,” he amended, still maintaining lack of eye contact. He cleared his throat, “what would you like to know?” 

God, all of it. “Uh, only got the younger Holmes?” Greg asked instead, almost vibrating in his seat at the idea of learning just a bit more about the mysterious man across from him. 

“I am the oldest, yes,” Mycroft replied carefully. 

“What do your parents do?” Greg continued, hoping career-focused prodding might be less intrusive than personalities or dynamic. 

“My father doesn’t work, my mother is a renowned mathematician. She travels constantly, was never really around much while we were growing up, well then neither was my father,” Mycroft looked up at Greg and smiled a sad smile. “I was a bit of a prat.” 

Greg fake-gasped. “Mycroft Holmes?! A prat?! Never!”

“Hush, you,” Mycroft said with a laugh and what a glorious sound that was. “I thought I could be mother. I thought I could protect Sherlock, guide him. Didn’t turn out well, naturally. Hence the resentment and frankly childish feud. I’m sure he has made some passing remarks to you.”

Greg thought back and hadn’t heard anything about Mycroft really, just the dread of doctors needing to call his emergency contact. He felt as though this were important for Mycroft to know, perhaps there wasn’t as much resentment as he thought. 

“Surprisingly he hasn’t said much about you, good or bad,” Greg replied, eyes searching for any reaction. Mycroft’s eyes widened a fraction before he maintained composure and took his gaze back to his sickly sweet cider. 

“Yes, well,” his voice trailed off and it seemed like that was that. Not wanting to lose momentum, Greg began on another topic he has wondered about. 

“So Anthea is your assistant. Does she always come ‘round your flat?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Anthea is invaluable to my life, both professionally and personally,” Mycroft replied simply, finishing his own glass. And, it seems like that was all he was getting on that. 

“What about work, though?” he asked with a smirk as Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I mean, I still don’t know what you do.” 

“I hate to be so evasive, Gregory,” Mycroft began with a smile of pride despite his contradiction to such. “But I can’t tell you exactly what I do. It is boring, truly. I hold a minor position in the British government.” 

“Mysterious,” Greg replied back with a wink. “What can you tell me?” Mycroft hummed and his eyes wandered as he contemplated. 

“I travel a bit,” Mycroft finally said and Greg waited for more, but no more came. He laughed and took the rest of his pint. 

He huffed out a breath, leaning back in the thick plush upholstery. This was his comfort zone, his territory, surely he shouldn’t be this on edge.

Greg wasn’t exactly sure where Mycroft and him stood. There was definitely a connection there, but he couldn’t really get a read on him. Was it in his head? He was pretty used to fabricating these sort of things, just getting a bit eager and infatuated. He fell a lot and fairly quickly. 

“I can certainly admit that I am not the most adept at understanding certain social cues, but I don’t believe I am that inept. I - were… Are you flirting with me?” Mycroft asked, moving to grip his glass, needing something to do with his hands. 

Whoa, that came out of nowhere. 

“I— well, yeah, I thought that was obvious,” Greg admitted automatically, blinking in surprise at his own bluntness. He continued to blink as Mycroft didn’t react. “Guess I am a bit out of practice, but I didn’t think I was that far off.” 

Mycroft’s eyes widened and his voice was small, “Why?”

Greg’s heart plummeted. Why flirt with him or why was he interested? Either way this was tearing a hole in his chest.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Greg asked with an incredulous laugh. Mycroft just stared on, so he continued. “You’re bloody brilliant. You’re completely unpredictable and uh, honestly that’s a bit of what I need. Keeps me on my toes and all.” He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Mycroft’s face was blushed such a deep crimson it almost looked purple. He swallowed audibly and looked up cautiously. “Shall we?” he asked, glancing toward the exit. 

Shit. He wants to leave. Too much, Greg, too much. The floodgates opened and Greg’s brain flickered offline, stream of consciousness flowing now. 

“I, um, sorry,” he babbled, refusing to make eye contact. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, I can— uh, yeah keep it professional.” Mycroft continued to stare, now opening his mouth to speak, but no words came, so Greg plowed on, still feeling the man’s gaze burning in his periphery. 

“I mean, you did show up to my flat… I didn’t think I— If you changed your mind,” Greg continued, now really conscious of his ramblings. His brain shouted to stop talking, but somehow that didn’t connect with his mouth. 

Mycroft’s face was somehow more red, his mouth now repeatedly opening and closing, stammering to get out something, anything to stop Greg’s babble. After repeated attempts, he changed course and placed his hand tentatively on top of Greg’s on the table, which slowed down Greg’s incessant chatter long enough for him to take note of his misinterpretation. 

“I am, oh. Oh,” Greg huffed out a relieved sigh and laughed awkwardly at himself. Mycroft smiled shyly, again motioning toward where they came in, but this time Greg got the hint. 

“Shall we continue this conversation at, perhaps, a different venue?” Mycroft amended to make his intentions clear. 

The walk to Greg’s flat was silent. There was a palpable magnetism between them. Greg shoved his hands deep in his pockets, nervously turning his keys over in his palm. It was hard to read the man next to him, but the small shaky sigh Greg did hear let him know that they were both nervous as hell. Still. Somehow. He was a grown man for Christ’s sake. 

Greg quickly opened his front door, pushing it open for Mycroft to head inside. He did, standing only a few steps into the flat, glancing around as if he were seeing the place for the first time. Greg locked the door behind him and stepped up, Mycroft turning around to speak, but Greg grabbed his face with both hands and their lips met in a chaste, but hard kiss. 

Mycroft stilled completely and Greg winced, pulling back. “Sorry.”

Mycroft blinked, quickly holding Greg’s hands to his face and shaking his head. He swallowed and stammered, “Can you t-try that again?”

Greg smiled, nodding and Mycroft’s eyes slipped closed, his stature still riddled with tensity. With newfound confidence, Greg leaned forward to kiss each eyelid, hearing Mycroft’s audible sigh and feeling his posture slack. He continued, kissing his temples, each cheek, and then, very gently, his lips. 

Electricity buzzed between them. Mycroft’s hands slipped down to Greg’s chest, tugging at his jacket to pull him closer, his fingertips repeating patterns to memorize the fabric beneath. Greg’s arms looped around his waist, returning the sentiment, as their lips parted every so slightly. 

It’s funny, kissing. Really, if you think about it. How kissing one person can be completely different from kissing another, but it’s the same act. How you remember the first kiss you’ve ever had, but maybe not your second first kiss. How you almost know in your gut if this is right person, right thing, right moment from one kiss. How you can listen to that innate feeling or disregard and let the hormones take over. 

Greg remembers every first kiss he's ever shared with someone. Not that he could help it. Greg loved kissing - loved the feeling of his partner melting in his arms, loved the spark of connection whirring to life between the physical attraction. He loved how techniques seemed to meld together in new ways. No one kiss was the same and each reaction was fresh, new, invigorating. 

In sum, he would be a happy bastard to sit there snogging Mycroft Holmes like a bloody teenager all night. 

A bit too soon they pulled back, resting foreheads on one another’s and swimming in the dizziness of their humid breath. Both men smiling like young boys, Greg reveled in the innocent nature of it. It was just a few pecks and he was drunk on endorphins. Christ, it hadn’t been that long, had it? 

No this was an amazing man in front of him. A mysterious, stubborn, infuriating man, but a beautiful, kind, brilliant man all the same. 

“There,” Mycroft cleared his throat, seeming to break the spell. “There is still more we should discuss.” 

Greg sighed, not able to stop the grin creeping up on his face. “In that case,” he said, cheeks burning from the smile. Get it together, Lestrade. “I think we need to set some, um, physical space.” He began to step back and Mycroft stepped with him - forward. “Mycroft,” Greg began in warning, but his laughter failed his stern voice. 

Mycroft blinked wide, nodding. “Yes, right, well,” he stepped back. “My work, I, um, doesn’t necessarily bode well for - whatever we decide to call this.” 

Greg set more physical space by walking into the kitchen to his right, rummaging in the cabinet for two glasses and filling them both with water. He leaned his hip against the counter as he drank, smirking. “What do you want to call this?” 

Mycroft’s eyes widened, grabbing the other glass, but not taking a sip. “I, um, I haven’t thought about…” 

“I have been under the assumption that we are dating. Tonight was a date, yes?” Greg asked, tipping the glass back again. He smiled at Mycroft’s blush, his struggle to navigate this conversation was adorable to say the least. Communication was good, though. This was good. Putting his water down, he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Yes, I suppose it was a date,” Mycroft replied, each word slow and carefully measured. He didn’t continue. 

Okay, it seemed like Greg was driving this communication train. He thought back, scanning the topics he should probably bring up - labels, exclusivity, insecurities, expectations…

“All right, so we’re on the same page there,” Greg continued, pressing along. “We don’t need to put a label on things if you’re uncomfortable. I’m not the sort that dates around, just not my thing. Not really, uh, looking to date other people.”

“I, oh,” Mycroft jumped in, looking startled by his own voice. “That’s good, um. Good, I feel the same.” 

Greg fought the urge to reach out a hand. No, communication was good here. He really wanted this to go somewhere and after his track record, communication was good, essential. 

“As for work,” he continued. “I don’t really understand, but I would like to.” 

“I— there may be some clearance or approval you would need for me to disclose certain things,” Mycroft replied, his tone now efficient and logical, churning forward like a well-oiled machine. “I wouldn’t recommend it considering the potential danger it could put you in and it would not be a guarantee.” 

Danger? All right, they’d talk about that later…

“Nothing is a guarantee,” Greg nodded. “I trust you to tell me what I need to know about your job - what you can share, that is.” Mycroft grimaced, looking away as if searching for the next thing to mention. Greg kept his spot a few feet away not wanting to startle the man. 

Okay, so labels, exclusivity, insecurities…

“I travel a lot,” Mycroft blurted out. “I can be out of the country for months at a time.” 

Greg blinked, trying to regain his thoughts. Was this a test? 

“I work a lot,” Greg replied, considering. “Sometimes I travel, not so much out of the country, but -” 

“You don’t understand, I don’t have much free time,” Mycroft amended, frustration building. 

Greg didn’t get it. Surely something was going on with Mycroft, but it sounded like he had to justify wanting to pursue something with him - justify the benefits of a relationship with him. It left a sour taste in his mouth, but he didn’t want to make assumptions. They were so close. 

“Myc,” Greg began, stepping forward tentatively. “I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but it is okay if you don’t want a relationship.” 

Mycroft’s mouth snapped shut and his posture shifted. His gaze went unfocused as his mind rattled for the next words. Greg stayed on edge, holding his breath to hear what the man would say next. 

“I quite enjoy your company, Greg,” Mycroft said, smiling and blushing a bit at the informality of the nickname. “I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t want to give you false expectations.” 

Greg quirked his head a bit and stepped forward again, cautious of Mycroft’s reaction. “No offense, but I don’t have expectations,” he said with a smile, taking another step forward and then another. “I would like to keep spending time with you, getting to know you.” He took another step and Mycroft took a step behind, his lower back resting against the countertop. 

“Say the word and we can stop,” Greg replied, his hands up in surrender. “You can set the pace, you can tell me whatever you need.” He lowered his arms and swallowed, not remembering a time he felt more vulnerable. He almost felt a bit like groveling, his cheeks warm with flush. 

For fuck’s sake Mycroft didn’t move. He didn’t react. He just stared on. His eyes looked a bit wider, Greg supposed, but it wasn’t enough to figure out where this was going. Greg was used to going a bit intense and he was aware of potentially - although as time passed it seemed more likely - scaring off the poor man.

He could almost see the cogs turning behind Mycroft’s azure stare. Greg felt short of breath, small, feeble. He felt as if his chest was pried open, his heart aching for some closure, clarity, something. If it was denial, fine, but let him feel it. He couldn’t take much more of this.

“You just have to tell me,” Greg whispered, eyes searching for something, anything on the man’s face to indicate rejection or other. “What do you want?”

Mycroft reach a hesitant, shaking hand to Greg’s upper arm and squeezed gently. “You,” he replied simply, stepping forward and closing the gap between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Was it good?


End file.
